You Will Not Fall
by Asidian
Summary: Before Maxwell dragged them into his world, Wes and Wolfgang were just circus performers learning to trust each other.


Author's Notes: This is very much set to fall into the timeline of the series A Very Long Game, which starts with Looks Like You're Having Some Trouble and then goes into Out of Darkness. That said, this fic stands alone pretty well, and you can read it without any other context.

It's set in 1903; Wes is sixteen at the time, and Wolfgang is twenty-five. They're both working for Abernethy and Parker, the circus that's hinted at in the game's puzzles.

* * *

You Will Not Fall

* * *

The ringmaster was talking about twenty words a second, the way he did when he got excited, so it took Wes holding up a hand palm out – stop – and flipping one hand end over end – go back, go back – to make sure he heard what he thought he'd heard.

Monsieur Parker repeated himself, a little slower, but no less breathlessly enthusiastic. "So then Darla hits the lights –"

"Red cloth over the lantern to give it the right feel," Darla chimed in, with a dimpled grin.

"—and on you go. We don't have the platform ready just yet, but by God, it'll be fantastic. We're talking twenty feet wide, with bricks on top of it, just to add more weight."

Wes stared, certain he'd misunderstood. He pointed at Wolfgang, then began to climb, rung by rung, up an invisible ladder.

"Sure," said Mr. Parker. "He can climb up hands free. Can't you, Wolfgang?"

"Is child's play," said Wolfgang.

Wes stared again.

He flexed nonexistent muscles, lifting an invisible platform above his head – took the platform down out of the air to hold the rectanguler shape of it and walked two of his fingers across the invisible surface. He looked doubtfully at Monsieur Parker and pointed at himself.

"Sure," said the ringmaster, beaming. "You've got the idea."

And Wolfgang clapped him on the back, meaty hand so effortlessly strong that he nearly knocked Wes from his feet. "You are light as bird," the big man told him. "Nothing to worry about."

* * *

After every show, the children came like a tidal wave, flowing out and among them.

Wes made balloon birds, balloon tigers, balloon elephants. He answered their questions – knew a dozen ridiculous stories told all in mime for "Why don't you talk?" each of them wildly untrue and fantastically inventive.

But he was not prepared for the little boy who tugged on his shirtsleeve one afternoon and said, "You make balloons for all of us. What about everyone in the circus?"

Wes made a show of thinking it over – tapped at his chin, then snapped his fingers in revelation.

He held up a single finger – please wait – and fished out balloons of dull grey. He blew them up one after the next, a whole row of them, and then he got to work, twisting and tugging and grinning the whole while.

When he was finished, the children gasped and applauded, and Wes bent down to give the result to the little boy. He made a gesture with one palm up – an elegant after you – and the boy took the balloon over to where Wolfgang was being climbed by a particularly intrepid child as though he were Mont Blanc.

"Mr. Strong Man, sir?" said the little boy, and Wolfgang looked down to see what he was holding.

It was a balloon barbell, life sized, longer than the boy was tall.

Wolfgang's laughter bellowed out across the clearing with its collection of scattered tents and lively flags. When Wes joined him it made no sound, but Wolfgang was loud enough for the both of them.

* * *

The platform was indeed twenty feet across, and three feet wide, and true to his word, Monsieur Parker added bricks to each end.

Wes watched Darla paint the front with dazzling yellow stars, felt the incredulity creeping over his own face.

"I will not drop you, my friend," Wolfgang said. "You will not fall."

* * *

New York was a hard sell.

In a large city, it was always more difficult to draw a crowd, for there were so many other things to do.

But Monsieur Abernethy had printed them each a stack of fliers and sent them out into the streets. He was the best busker they had, and one of the owners besides, so when he said that he wanted to see every seat filled tomorrow, each and every one of them knew he would be out on the streets as well, drumming up business.

So Wes had gone in costume and face paint – had reprised one of his old acts from the streets of Paris, where it was important to catch attention and keep it as soon as people walked by. He handed out balloons by the dozen and the festive sheets of paper more steadily still.

By the time sunset had come, he'd gone through his whole stack, and their words were still echoing bright and appreciative in his ears. "Oh, mommy, please can we see the show tomorrow?"

Wes was still smiling softly, lost in his own thoughts, steps light.

He was smiling right up until a meaty fist snaked out and seized him by the collar, rattling him hard and slamming him up against the wall. "Your money or your life, pal," said the man, and yes, sure enough, there was a sharp sting of steel pressed up against his neck.

Wes didn't dare to nod – hardly dared to breathe. He thought that now would be a good time to be able to speak. If he could, he might have explained that he had nothing on him, not one single cent, but he would really rather keep his life, thanks very much.

"Look, pal," said the man, and he slammed Wes into the wall again, so hard black comets shot across his vision. "I really don't want to do something we're both going to regret. Just cough it up."

Suddenly, the knife was gone.

Suddenly the _man_ was gone – not just pulled back, but thrown, hitting the brick wall with a muffled whump of flesh.

"Will be no coughing," Wolfgang rumbled.

Wes had never especially appreciated how intimidating a hulking man in a leotard might be, but he appreciated it now. He appreciated it very much.

He felt gingerly at his own throat, checking for blood – felt a warm rush of relief when he found none. He slipped out toward the street, putting Wolfgang between himself and the other man.

"We are going now," Wolfgang said. "If you do not wish to feel more pain, you will stay down."

The man stayed down. Wes didn't blame him.

* * *

The first time, they practiced on ground level.

Wolfgang got down on his knees and braced the platform across his shoulders. He attempted standing with no more than that – went up and down four or five times, to make sure that he could do it steadily enough.

Then it was Wes' turn. This time, while Wolfgang was on his knees, Wes scrambled up the ledge. He set his stance wide, balanced his weight in the center. When he thought he could proceed, he tapped his heel against the boards three times in a row, rapidly – the sign that he was ready.

And Wolfgang rose, slow and remarkably graceful, and for a wonder Wes did not fall.

* * *

"Is vodka," said Wolfgang, as Wes turned the bottle of clear liquid over in his hands. "Is best drink in world."

The sun was long down, the crowds gone home hours ago. The circus carried the lingering scent of popcorn, rich with butter, and underneath it the earthy aroma of hay and wild animals. Everyone sensible was asleep, for they would need to be up at five the next morning to pack the tents away and move on to the next town.

But here was Wes, cross-legged on the floor of the costume tent with the world's strongest man, with a bottle of – something. The best drink in the world, apparently.

Wes sniffed at it doubtfully, caught a whiff some something sharp and strong, and wrinkled his nose.

Wolfgang laughed at the expression, took the bottle back and helped himself to a long pull. "See?" he said, when he had finished. "Is fine. Better than fine. Is _best_."

So Wes took a sip, just a small one, and when it burned the back of his throat he coughed and coughed, until Wolfgang pounded him on the back.

The second sip went down easier.

Later, all he would remember of that night was the burn of the vodka, and trying on Monsieur Parker's jacket and top hat, and Wolfgang trying on Darla's feathered head piece. Wes had laughed silently, so hard he cried, so hard his face paint ran with it.

Darla discovered them at five the next morning, still awake, the bottle long since empty.

* * *

The ladder was high.

Very, very high.

Wes stood staring up at it for a long time, until Wolfgang set one massive hand on his shoulder.

"I have not dropped you yet. Da?"

He hadn't. But falling from six feet and falling from twenty-five meant the difference between a skinned knee and a broken neck.

Wes looped an imaginary noose around his own throat – pulled until he went slack and dead.

"Pfft," said Wolfgang. "Where is sense of adventure? Come, my friend. Much better ways to die."

* * *

Everything ached.

They had done three shows for the town of Pickman's Ridge in a single day, and no sooner had they finished than all hands were stripping down the tents, packing them away for the journey. Abernethy and Parker's had another engagement the following morning, and a lot of ground to cover before they reached it.

But for now, there was nothing to do; for now, Wes could lean his head back against the boards of the circus wagon's interior and stare idly up at the fanciful carvings along the ceiling, lulled by the gentle back-and-forth motion of wheels on the road.

His thoughts were far away, drifting daydreams – so when the question came, it took him by surprise.

It was one he'd heard in a hundred different variations, one he always answered with a smile and a show. It was, "Why do you no talk?"

Wes opened his eyes to see that Wolfgang was watching him, perhaps had let his own thoughts wander, and come around to this. "Was it – I cannot say in English. Was it from baby time?"

 _Were you born with it?_ Wes' thoughts translated automatically.

He hesitated – shook his head.

Wolfgang was still watching. Not demanding, just curious.

And so Wes gave the real answer, for perhaps the first time ever. Drove an imaginary carriage into an imaginary little boy who hadn't been looking where he was going. Then an imaginary mother brought him to see an imaginary doctor, where a somber shake of the head brought the news: so sorry, there's nothing to be done.

Wes tapped his throat and gave a halfhearted shrug.

He had been very young at the time, and the doctor's words had been technical ones. He did not think he could explain properly in French, much less in English or with no words at all, but he recalled his mother telling him that the nerves had been damaged in just the wrong way.

"It pains you?" Wolfgang asked him. The tone was so grave that Wes paused, mid-motion, and glanced up. He considered how to say it. Shook his head, then tapped his own chest and held his hand up about waist high: no, not now. It happened when I was very small.

Wolfgang seemed to understand. He was silent for a long while, until Wes touched him on the shoulder.

He quirked a smile, poked one finger into the center of Wolfgang's chest. He lifted one hand, up and up – stood so that he could keep going until he was stretched comically high, onto his tiptoes. Wolfgang laughed, as he'd been meant to.

"Little man," Wolfgang said, "For me, is from baby time. Wolfgang was mighty always."

* * *

From the top of the ladder, Darla's face was a small pink oval, and Monsieur Parker's hat was no larger than his thumbnail. Wes stared down, stiff-legged with fear.

Below him, Wolfgang stood solid as a mountain. Wes could not feel a single tremor.

"Is safe to move," Wolfgang told him.

Wes wondered, belatedly, how he was meant to signal Wolfgang if something went wrong during the act. He wondered if it was possible to pass out with fright, and if he would wake up as he fell, for long enough to feel his skull crack.

"I will not drop you, my friend. I mean this. You will not fall."

Wes lifted his foot, reluctantly. He slid it sideways.

The world did not crumble.

He did not fall.

* * *

Wolfgang was sitting on a bench in the big top, long after the crowds had gone.

He was too large for the little seat, and his knees were drawn up nearly to his chest. He was hunched over something in his lap, utterly absorbed.

Wes passed him once with an armful of cloth for the costume tent. He passed again, going the other way, with food for the monkeys. When he came the third time, it was with a bucket of leftover popcorn.

He slid onto the bench beside Wolfgang and offered the bucket with an easy smile. He had never seen the big man turn down food, not once, and this was no exception. "You are lifesaver," Wolfgang declared, and put aside the paper he'd been scratching at in favor of seizing a fistful of popcorn and cramming it into his mouth.

Wes snaked his hand in to steal a piece before it was all gone – popped it into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. As Wolfgang went back for seconds, Wes flicked one finger toward the piece of paper – raised his eyebrows, a soundless question.

"To my mama," Wolfgang said. "But is hard, to write so long a letter. Words do not come easy, even in Russian."

Wes tapped at his chin, then snapped his fingers. He snatched up the pen with an impish grin. "Bonjour, Madame Wolfgang," he wrote on the paper, in flowing script. Then he pressed a kiss to the blank white space, and the black paint on his lips left a perfect imprint behind.

Wolfgang relinquished the popcorn and made to take it back – but Wes flashed a smile at him, tipped a wink, and fled the tent with the letter in hand.

He returned fifteen minutes later, and the page was full with friendly greetings. Everyone in the circus had something to say to Wolfgang's mama, and they had been more than happy to add their small piece.

Wolfgang read them over, slowly, one at a time, and his smile grew with each one he deciphered. Monsieur Parker's praise for his showmanship. Monsieur Abernethy's invitation to come and see the circus anytime, free of charge. Darla's amiable, mostly illegible scrawl. Wes had begged a word or two from them each, and all the others besides, and now they stood upon the page, an outpouring of good will.

Wolfgang looked up from the sheet of paper. He opened his mouth, but no words came. Instead, he crushed Wes in a hug that drove the breath from his lungs.

Later, he added to the bottom of the letter: mama, my friends at the circus also wanted to say hello.

* * *

"Ladies and gentlemen," said Monsieur Parker, and Wes took a breath to steady himself. "Prepare to be amazed. Prepare to be astounded! For the first time ever, please welcome back to the stage two of your favorite performers for an incredible double act!"

Darla put the red cloth over the lantern, to give it the right feel, and the crowd went wild, the applause so loud that Wes could feel it rising like a wave in his chest.

Below him, Wolfgang began to walk toward the ladder set in center stage.

And Wes – Wes was not afraid at all.


End file.
